The Unusually Good Cohort

 It was never going to be the perfect process. When SARS-COV-2 landed on our shores back in February, the exam season was essentially cancelled immediately (although we didn't know that at the time).

No exams for pupils meant of course that the assessment process was going to consist of teacher-estimates (backed by professional judgement and whatever evidence we could remember for individual pupils based on how they had performed over the course of the year).

That raw process was always going to show a statistical aberration from what formal, invigilated examinations produced by way of grades produces, year-on-year. The usual process provides a reasonably good level playing field for pupils across the country and can be relied upon to ensure that pupils from every school in the country are graded on how good they are at sitting in front of a formal question paper (yes, indeed, we don't all agree on the suitability of that model for setting kids' life chances).

When the teacher-predicted results were submitted, gathered and analysed it became clear that there was a problem. Curiously the class of 2020 had performed significantly better than other years - a situation unlikely to have been the result of unusually good teaching and learning taking place between August 2019 and March 2020.

So. A problem. What to do?

Of course, dead easy. Look at the performance of pupils in each school in each particular subject across a three year period and determine where a cohort has clearly been over-estimated. Then take a statisical mallet to those results and hammer them down. Brilliant!

This will, of course, address the cases where for example new teachers have been too optimistic in estimating a pupil's performance (it happens; we all did it in the first few years of our careers because we believe in our awesomeness as teachers and we believe that pupils will ultimately perform well on the day).

So the "statistical mallet" will tease out and rectify those cases. No doubt about that.

But at this stage we need to consider the Unusually Good Cohort. The UGC comes along every few years. We recognise them quickly. They are usually a joy to teach; they work hard every lesson; they do their homework; they do well in early-term class tests. They are what we all imagine every class is like when we decide to become teachers.

And they stick out like a sore thumb, come exam time.

They exist. When I met my old French teacher six years ago for her ninetieth birthday celebration, she waxed lyrical about my year group (who left school in 1981). She described how my year group had been "noticed" in primary school in 1974. For the avoidance of doubt, although the UGC were my friends. I wasnt one of them.

I had a UGC a couple of years ago. Higher Physics. With a "normal" nationwide average of about 30% of pupils achieving an "A" in the exam, this cohort delivered just short of 50% A grades come exam-time.

But UGCs are statistically unusual - and this year they have been hit with the mallet.

Schools teaching pupils with fewer socio-economic challenges (please don't call them "good schools") don't have much headroom for unusually good cohorts to shine. Their results are usually high. But schools who don't enjoy such freedom from "challenges" have lots of headroom. UGCs will appear like a flashing blue light alongside (and indistinguishable from) over-optimistic estimates.

So, this is where the headlines about deprived pupils being disadvantaged have come from. Pupils with significant challenges, who have listened to teachers and parents, who have buckled down and worked unusually hard and who have done their school proud and who have shown that "good" schools and "bad" schools is nothing to do with postcodes have been slaughtered.

Part of an Usually Good Cohort? Tough.

This needs fixed. And quickly.

A Bedtime Battle

"Just close your eyes and go to sleep"

"I'm not tired"

"Look, it's been a long, long day and there's a lot to be done tomorrow"

"Look at that bug crawling across the ceiling. Can you not see it?"

"It's late. Go. To. Sleep."

"I told you, I'm not tired"

"Just close your eyes, and try to go to sleep".

"I'm..........still............not............"


And with that she fell into what looked like a restful slumber. I probably had dozens of bedtime battles like this with my daughter over the years, as my mother probably had with me fifty-odd years ago.

But this was the here and now, and it was me imploring my 85 year old mother to rest her shattered body and confused mind. Dosed-up with morphine, her broken left arm immobilised by a surgical brace and her left hip a dizzying array of bone fragments visible only to the prying eyes of the x-ray machine.

I smiled at the role-reversal.

The morphine - while nullifying the pain of her injuries - had demanded the modest fee of minor hallucinations. Sadly no elephants on unicycles, just some benign bugs walking across the ceiling.

Her death certificate says "multiple organ failure" resulting from a "mechanical fall". My ostensibly healthy 85 year old Mum went - in the space of 25 hours - from preparing her evening meal to dying. All because her slippers caught on the kitchen floor and sent her crashing to the ground.

It's difficult to process when it's written down like that. "I fell" is usually the refrain of the child and accompanied by tears and snotters. It's usually treated by a hanky to a grazed knee and a kiss to make it better.

But it killed my Mum.

The utter brilliance of the NHS was breathtaking. The 999 call was followed within 10 minutes by the arrival of an ambulance. The paramedics' professionalism in quickly and effectively treating her immediate physical needs was mirrored by their utter brilliance in calming the atmosphere and soothing the panic of the uninjured. A second ambulance soon followed in order to expedite Mum's mechanical stabilisation and evacuation; all the while, apologies from the patient for being stupid and ruining everyone's night.

A couple of hours or so in A&E, with a CT scan clearly pointing to hip surgery within 48 hours and subsequent months of recuperation. Coupled with a broken arm, the medium term future for Mum was going to be her worst nightmare. Even if she did manage to return home, she was going to need personal help with everything from food prep to you-know-what. Now was most defintely not the time to share with her her prognosis.

Eventually we were admitted to a ward - sitting with her for a further couple of hours. It was here that we had the bedtime-battle, good-natured and clearly an opportunity for her to gently wind me up.

But, thankfully she fell asleep.

Arriving home at 2:30am - getting a reasonable four or five hours sleep - the morning call to "come to the hospital as soon as you can" was like a thunderbolt. She had deteriorated overnight and - although still very much alive - was not responding to verbal stimuli.

The day progressed. Further diagnostics revealing intestinal stalling. Blood pressure inexorably falling. Heart rate rising in an attempt to maintain blood-oxygen levels. Kidneys not playing ball.

Lunchtime saw admission to ICU and the administering of meds to artificially sort the blood-pressure issue. But to no avail. By 4pm it became clear that we were about to watch my mother die.

It's been said that everyone dies alone, but thankfully not my Mum. As we sat around her bed we chatted about normal stuff : about her granddaughter's upcoming wedding; about work; about the weather. And as she drifted off, as her breathing became shallower and her pulse grew weaker I hope and I think that she felt everything was "normal". No fear; no panic. Just peace.

"Night, night. Don't let the..........?"

"........bed bugs bite".